JetBlue circa 1971

Last week I got a call from my mom. She wanted to book flights to Ft. Myers for her and my
dad. Actually, I should rephrase that: she wanted me to book flights to Ft. Myers for her and my dad. She calls me her personal travel agent which is ironic because her second born child, my sister Kirsten is,for all intents and purposes, a travel agent. But since the zodiac aligns or because I am a weaker personality, my patience lasts longer than some would recommend is healthy and I can withstand the 72 minute phone conversation that ensues. Granted, as I sit at my laptop in my studio apartment I stifle some laughter and roll my eyes intermittently throughout the conversation. Here is a creative play-by-play.

“O.k., so we want to go to Ft. Myers around March 22 and return around March 29, but we don’t need to go for an entire week. Actually, Freddy,” my mom consults my dad, who is sitting next her on the couch focusing on television program. Here is where my dad’s personality shines through. Typically, as opposed to stereotypically, man’s ability to multi-task is not as keen as their counterpart’s. In order for my dad to focus on the new task at hand, it takes him a long dramatic pause to re-establish a connection with the person to his side and pull away from the television set. I wait on the other end of the phone. “Freddy. Can you turn that down? Or off would be better. Judy and Bobby said that they are going to go down on which dates?” I hear my dad’s voice in the background.

“O.k., so Daddy thinks we should leave on Wednesday and return on Tuesday.”

This decision about departure and arrival takes 15 minutes which does not surprise me. There is little prep time with the Gottwalds. Spontaneous, we are not, but planners we are less.

“Oh, and Judy and Bobby said we should check Air Tran. We like JetBlue, but should we try AirTran?”

I should interject a bit into the story. When Chris and I flew home from Austin in January, we flew the Houston-JFK leg through AirTran. We had booked our tickets through Southwest, but they now have this special yet totally uncomprehendable partnership with AirTran. Southwest is a healthy airline: it has fat Texans aboard, rugged outdoorsy New Englanders who are tight-lipped and territorial, lots of families with kids (which makes the pre-boarding procedure last about 45 minutes in itself). Chris and I had an inkling when we arrived at the AirTran gate at Houston Hobby; we had to exit the main terminal (one of the nicest airports I have flown through) and get re-screened to enter the shitty terminal which is partly under construction and partly a time capsule (built way before anyone thought about airport architecture, psychological effects of colors, seating, lighting). There are about 5 gates in this terminal and we wince to realize that A)our gate is one of them and B)the only snack place is a bar-pizza hybrid joint where the tables are stool height and each one has a BUD LITE umbrella hoisted above it. Remember there is no natural light that would explain the need for an umbrella. But I digress. AirTran’s customer base looks like my fellow NYC subway riders which really isn’t a reason to be concerned as I am familiar and comfortable with people who are in my income bracket and demographic (have the sensibility and style of a student but aren’t). But I wonder what happened to all those fat Texans, territorial New Englanders, and babies. I immediately feel like we were pre-scanned to join the reject flight. Once aboard AirTran, my feelings are confirmed. Chris’s armrest is wobbly and can’t sustain the resting of his elbow (not a massive piece of anatomy), our tray tables are tilted so that our cups meander toward the edge, and (the best) a guy across the aisle asks a flight attendant for a pillow and blanket and she brusquely tells him that there “is a charge” for that kind of service. He makes eye contact with us and we all raise our eyebrows the way I imagine kids in detention do when they have asked the monitor for a pencil and have been told that detention is not for homework and they are expected to sit with their hands folded on their desks and stare at the chalkboard without blinking. We knew we were in for an inhospitable, uncomfortable, and unforgettable flight. The exceptional turbulence was a perk.

“I think we should stick with JetBlue,” I respond.

I look up their options and inform my mom that there are approximately 15 daily flights from Boston to Ft.Myers. This makes her happy. I tell her that the direct flights are $179, the one-stop flights are $129. This makes her (and my dad) unhappy.

“What do you mean? We can’t fly direct? What does a layover mean? Do I have to take-off and land more than one time? Isn’t that going to be confusing? Will we have to switch planes? How do we know where to go?” The panic is palpable. It’s like I just told her that although she will survive, the flight will indeed have a crash landing. I feel like we have stepped back into 1971.

“Mom, you switch planes. The flight attendants basically escort you to the gate across the hall. It’s easy. And it will save you $200 round-trip.”

“I don’t know. Freddy…Freddy, are you listening? She says that a direct flight is $200 more expensive.” I can hear (if you knew him, you could hear it too) my dad look up to the ceiling, stroke his chin, squint his eyes and purse his lips. He doubts the simplicity of things in life. And his skepticism, although well-known to his offspring as borne from a complicated personal history, always reveals itself in incredibly reduced one word reactions, as it does at this moment: “Really?”

I tilt my cell phone’s mouthpiece so that it rests on my jugular and I giggle out loud. I convince my mom that flying through JFK on JetBlue will be easy. It’s a hub. It’s friendly. It will be okay. She translates the assurance to my dad and there is clearance for purchase. Credit card purchases online, in my mom’s mind, are a disgraceful thing. She is plagued by an incident from years ago (long before computers came into her every day life). We were in Swampscott, visiting the very same Judy and Bobby who mentioned the possibility of AirTran, around 1988. It was the 4^th of July and the neighborhood was swarming with kids (and teenagers). She left her purse in the minivan, under the driver’s seat, and it was not until weeks later when she received her credit card statement reporting that things had been charged at Jordan Marsh. Things like jewels. That caught her eye. No one in our family bought jewels. So, after going through the motions she realized that one of the teenagers on the block on that 4^th of July must have taken the credit card right out and made purchases. This has informed her feelings towards credit cards. Although it is in no way related to online purchases, it was a traumatic event and she is highly resistant of the modern-day online purchase.

She reads the credit card to me like it is her will.

Speaking of, she also tells me where the hard copy of their will is located while the credit card transaction is going through. “Just in case,” she says.

“Good to know,” I say sarcastically as I shake my head. After a few minutes, the confirmation page appears on the computer screen and I inform her that the purchase is complete. Now it’s time to choose seats. For some reason, this seems “wicked exciting” for my parents.

“We want to be in the front of the plane.” I am impressed by her declaration. I tell her that there are some seats in the front of the plane, but they are not side by side.

“Shit.” She has a tendency to swear for dramatic value. And it always serves its purpose, as she isn’t a typically natural curser. “Freddy, there aren’t any seats together in the front of the plane.”

Another visible look up to the ceiling from Freddy.

I explain to her that there are seats together in the middle of the plane but my mom wants to be in the front of the plane; after all, there will be that crash landing and she wants to get off FIRST. I also read the information on the page and it says that there is more leg room the further back in the plane one goes. So, I relay this information. This makes them happy. I further explain that there are exits in the middle of the plane AND at the back of the plane. She’s more receptive to the idea of sitting in another section.

Freddy inquires, “Where does Erin sit?” It’s endearing to me that my dad will take my lead. On the other hand, we all know that there is an underlying pressure with those type of questions. It means that he will take your advice, but if he is disappointed, he will not forget.

I tell them that I usually sit above the wing and they decide to do the same. I put them in the Emergency Exit Row. You can imagine the 21 questions that my mom would fire off if I told her that she is in that row. So, she’ll probably discover that either on the plane or when reading this blog (whichever comes first).

I ask whether they want window and middle or aisle and middle and chaos ensues.

“What do you mean? We want only 2 seats in our row.”

“That isn’t an option, Mom.”

“Shit.”

There is some serious back and forth between them and collectively we decide that aisle and middle is best (my mom needs that eject option).

It’s 8:26 and “The Office” starts in 4 minutes. “OK. I’ll email you the confirmation, Mom. I have to go.”

She thanks me for my help and tells me that she is going to give me a call next week to help her find a cheap B&B in Key West.

I can’t wait.